


Pain Redeems All

by angelsaves



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, BDSM, Biting, Boston Bruins, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrice Bergeron is the first <i>anguisset</i> born in a generation: built to love pain like no one else. </p><p>A hockey RPF/Kushiel's Legacy fusion AU. (See the notes for more information, if you're not familiar with both fandoms!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain Redeems All

**Author's Note:**

> Fandom info: if you're coming at this from the hockey side of things, [here's the wiki article on Kushiel's Legacy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kushiel%27s_Legacy)! If that's tl;dr, think of it as sort of a BDSM AU, where Bergeron was born to be the subbiest sub ever to sub (the rough IRL translation of _anguisset(te)_ ), marked by the red dot in his eye. _Signale_ means "safeword." It's an alternate history, so he swears by different gods, and L'Ancienne-Lorette is called Nouvelle-Marsilikos.
> 
> If you're coming at this from the Kushiel's Legacy side of things, [here's Patrice Bergeron with his face all fucked up](https://cbsboston.files.wordpress.com/2013/06/patrice-bergeron.jpg?w=640). It's a _really_ good look on him. 
> 
> ETA: [Patrice Bergeron bloody, on his knees, mouth open, being restrained](https://cbsboston.files.wordpress.com/2013/06/patrice-bergeron_edited-13.jpg?w=1280).

Patrice is the first _anguisset_ born in a generation: built to love pain like no one else. His mother Sylvie recognizes the red mote in his eye the moment he opens them, a tiny bundle in her arms, and makes the decision that she will raise him no differently from his older brother Guillaume. This is 1985, after all. He can make his own choices when he's old enough.

And that's just what he does, from age four when he decides to stop sitting in the net and get up and skate, to age ten when he gives up the piano for hockey, to age sixteen when he leaves home to play for the Titans.

It's in the Q, away from parents who might check his internet search history, that Patrice finally does a search to see what the red dot in his eye is. He's asked his mother, but she was evasive, making sounds about it not being cancer or an injury or anything important, not mattering until he was older. Well, he's older _now_.

What he finds makes his head spin. " _Anguisset,_ " he whispers. The website he found only refers to them in the feminine, but Patrice is no _anguissette_. He might be confused about some things, but not that.

It explains a lot. He's not an idiot, he knows about sex, but it never really occurred to him that the way he feels when he gets hurt -- like he wants to jerk off, _now_ \-- isn't... normal. Or, well, it's normal for him, because of his eye, but it's not how everybody else feels -- not anybody else alive, not to the same degree. He's something special. 

There's one thing he needs to know, once he has his mind wrapped around that revelation: are there people who work the opposite way? There must be, right? The _anguissette_ site tells him that he has a deeper version of a tendency that a fair number of people have, called algolagnia, or pleasure from pain, and that, yes -- people are out there who like giving pain as much as Patrice likes receiving it. As long as he uses a _signale_ to say when it's too much (he picks his other last name, Cleary, as something he's unlikely to say for no reason), which the person he's with is morally obligated to respect, he'll be safe.

It's almost too much to take in. Patrice logs off and climbs into bed, still reeling. He's different, really different -- but there's a word for it, a meaning to it. "That which yields is not always weak," he whispers to himself as he falls asleep.

***

The next several years are all about hockey, to the point where Patrice almost -- but not quite -- forgets about the _anguisset_ thing. He loses his virginity to somebody who has no idea that the spot in his eye means anything, and it doesn't suck, even if Patrice is left feeling like there could have been something more. He gets in his first fight, and his second, and learns that getting hard in his jock _does_ suck.

The first time he brings the two together is the 2009 Stanley Cup playoffs. Patrice records his first career major penalty fighting Josh Gorges, and wipes the ice with him to keep himself from enjoying it too much. He grabs Gorges on the way out of the locker room, high on the win, 5-1, and says, "Come home with me."

Gorges looks him up and down, and maybe he sees something in Patrice, because he says, "Going to let me win my honor back?"

"Maybe," Patrice says, and Gorges follows him to the players' lot and into his car, texting his excuses to -- whoever, Patrice doesn't give a damn.

"You liked it," Gorges says, once they're on the road to Patrice's apartment. "Fighting, I mean."

"So did you," Patrice says -- a guess, but not a wild one.

"I did, yeah," Gorges says. "But I like the hitting part a hell of a lot more than the getting-hit part."

"Then I think we'll get along just fine," Patrice says.

Gorges lets out a breath. "Awesome. Do you have a _signale?_ "

"Cleary."

"I'll remember."

Patrice is expecting Gorges to slam him up against the wall as soon as the door is locked behind them, but he's not expecting it to feel as good as it does. Bolts of pleasure shoot through him, from the back of his head where it collides with the wall, his shoulders where Gorges is gripping them, straight to his cock. He groans.

"You really do like it," Gorges says with wonder.

'Yeah," Patrice says. "Hit me."

It doesn't take much persuasion, or, really, any. Gorges punches him in the gut, hard enough that he gasps for breath, then in the jaw, right where he did in the game, and fuck, this is _amazing_. Patrice grabs Gorges by the back of the head and kisses him frantically.

It's rough and messy and perfect. Gorges bites at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and Patrice thrusts helplessly against his thigh, desperate for friction. Fuck, he's going to come in his suit pants, and he doesn't even care.

"Fuck," Gorges says, pulling back to look at him, "you're so hot like this. Your face should always be fucked up." He kisses Patrice again, holding him by the shoulders hard enough to bruise, and Patrice comes so hard he thinks he sees the face of a god, bronze-winged and stern.

He wants Gorges to feel that good. "Let me," he says, reaching into Gorges' fly and going for his cock.

"Yeah," Gorges says, squeezing harder on Patrice's shoulders, throwing his head back. "C'mon, yeah, like that --" Patrice jerks him off more gently than he does himself, because, well, yeah, and Gorges seems to like it, if the way he comes all over Patrice's hand is any indication.

"Couch," Patrice says, shoving Gorges back upright when he slumps against him.

"Ungh," Gorges says, but he lets himself be aimed at Patrice's couch. "Shit, that was amazing."

"Thank you," Patrice says. "For me, too."

"Seriously, it's unfair for you to be this good at hockey _and_ sex. Are you some kind of savant?"

"I'm an _anguisset,_ " Patrice says. It's the first time he's ever said it to anyone but the mirror.

"For real?" Gorges studies him, gaze hooking on the red mote in his eye. "I thought those were a myth."

"Well, here I am," Patrice says, and quotes, "Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal / Late of the brazen portals / With blood-tipp'd dart a wound unhealed / Pricks the eyen of chosen mortals."

"Whoa," Gorges says.

Blood rushes to Patrice's head, pounding in his ears and washing his vision with red. "Tell people," he says. "The ones who need to know."

"Okay, I can do that," Gorges says. "Are you okay?"

Patrice shakes his head to clear it. "Yeah, man, I'm fine. Want me to call you a cab?"

"Sure, that'd be great," Gorges says. He does, and gets them each a bottled protein shake from the fridge while he's at it. Gorges salutes him with the bottle, then guzzles it down.

"If you want to do this again," Patrice says hesitantly, fingering the sore spot on his jaw, and trails off.

"Any time," Gorges says. "Seriously."

***

The bruises last for a while -- longer than they should have, probably, because Patrice presses on them every time he jerks off. The pain blossoming through him makes everything feel sharper and better; he barely needs to touch his cock to go off like a rocket, not when he can dig his fingers into his jaw or his shoulder and feel the bruises deep in his flesh.

They do fade, though, and the Bruins go down to the Hurricanes in the semifinals. It sucks, but there's the next season and the Olympics to look forward to. He's started talking to Sidney Crosby again, more often than they've spoken since World Juniors, for the Canadian team, and eventually it comes up that Sid is one of the people Gorges told about him.

"If we win," Sid says, "I want to."

"What if we medal?" Patrice wheedles, just to see what happens.

"If we win," Sid says firmly.

"Then we'll win," Patrice says.

They win. Not only that, Sid scores the Golden Goal.

"I think that goal deserves a reward," Patrice tells Sid, tipsy on champagne, almost tripping on the way into the room.

"Oh yeah?" Sid says, grinning. "What kind of reward?"

"What do you want?" Patrice returns.

Sid screws up his face, thinking. From their talks over the past couple of months, Patrice knows that Sid is as precise in his desires as he is in everything else. "I want to bend you over the desk and hit you," he decides, "and fuck your thighs."

"Awesome," Patrice says, and starts to strip. Sid does the same, and Patrice takes a moment to look and appreciate -- it's been a while since he's had the chance.

"Let's make out first," Sid says, stepping closer, and Patrice is hardly going to turn that opportunity down. Sid's mouth is _luscious_ , and he pinches Patrice's nipples fiercely as they kiss, until Patrice is whining into it.

"Come on, Sid," he says, leaning back to increase the pain, "are you going to hit me or what?"

Sid laughs, like a honking goose, and with one last vicious twist, lets go. "Fine," he says. "Bend over."

Patrice does. The cool fake wood pressing on his sore nipples feels incredible -- Sid's fist connecting with his ass cheek feels even better. "Oh, yeah," he breathes.

"You like that? Good." Sid proceeds to pound his ass and the backs of his thighs with closed fists until Patrice is throbbing like a blinking stop light, illuminated with pain and pleasure like electricity. Then he presses himself close against Patrice and lines his cock up in the crease of Patrice's ass, sliding slick and hot past his balls.

"So good," Patrice manages to say. "You're so good, Sid."

"You're just -- buttering me up for a reach-around," Sid says, but he gets ahold of Patrice's cock anyway, just a loose grip, almost worse than nothing at all.

"Wouldn't say it if it weren't true," Patrice says, trying to grind his hips against Sid's hand, the edge of the desk, fuck, anything.

"Oh yeah?" Sid says, and sinks his teeth into the back of Patrice's neck.

"Yes, _yes_ ," Patrice cries out, knowing he sounds like porn, knowing the walls are thin, knowing Sid is getting off on just that. "Sid, yes!"

Sid almost growls, worrying the skin between his teeth, and finally tightens his grip. "Come for me," he says, and Patrice does. Sid follows a moment later, biting Patrice's neck even harder, sending aftershocks of pleasure through him.

"We've made a mess," Patrice says, when Sid is sprawled on the bed, still naked, and he's leaning against the desk, catching his breath.

Sid's eyes crinkle with a smile. "So clean it up," he says.

***

It's not the last time someone hears about Patrice's -- proclivities? Gift, he decides to call it. Claude Giroux tracks him down in Nouvelle-Marsilikos in the off-season to slap him around and fuck his mouth until tears spring to his eyes, then kisses him sweetly when he says goodbye.

Patrice brings Gorges home, or goes home with Gorges, a few times; he gets off with Sid a few more. They're friends, though, too close for the thrill of the chase, but not close enough for anything like a real routine, or, Kushiel forbid, a relationship.

Then the 2011 playoffs come around, and the Bruins are in the Cup finals against the Canucks -- and Alexandre Burrows fucking bites him, on the ice!

"Thought you'd like it," Burrows says unrepentantly, leaning against the wall by the visitors' locker room. "Are you coming home with me or not?"

"I am," Patrice says.

Unsurprisingly, by the time he gets back to the hotel early the next morning, he's covered in bite marks: big nearly-circular ones, little red ones, spots where the bruises will last for weeks, spots where Burrows broke the skin and then carefully dabbed on antiseptic cream. They're everywhere, but mostly on his inner thighs, where Burrows bit him in between blowing him and rimming him.

("Orally fixated," Patrice said at one point, and Burrows just rolled his eyes and went back to fucking _devouring_ him. It wasn't a complaint.)

He's expecting to be alone in his room -- he's roomed alone for years now, as a veteran player. Instead, Zdeno Chára is asleep in the chair by the bed.

"Uh... Z?" Patrice gently kicks him in the shoe. "Z, wake up."

Blinking, Z sits up straighter. "Patrice," he says, rubbing his eyes. "We need to talk."

"Okay," Patrice says slowly, and sits down on the edge of his bed. "What's up?"

"I know what you are," Z says. " _Anguisset._ We said _Nositel'om bolesti_ , when last we saw one."

"Oh," Patrice says, putting two and two together. "Did you want -- this isn't the best time --"

"No," Z says quickly -- and apparently Patrice came up with five. "No, thank you. The problem is the team."

"The team has a problem with me?" Patrice's stomach drops.

"Not with you. With your choice of partner." Z sighs and rubs the side of his head. "With Burrows, here, tonight -- it sends a message. You understand?"

Patrice groans. "I do," he says. "I wasn't thinking."

"Not with your head," Z agrees, smiling for the first time.

"You're not wrong," Patrice admits. "I'm sorry. I'll keep it in my pants until --"

"If you can't keep it in your pants, keep it on the team," Z says. "I don't think you'll have to look very hard."

"Okay," Patrice says, but privately resolves to take the former option.

"Now get some sleep." Z levers himself out of the chair, knees cracking audibly. "I'm going to bed."

"Thanks, Z," Patrice says through a yawn. Sleep, at least, is not going to be a problem.

***

Z's not wrong, though; Patrice doesn't have to look hard. When he gets up for breakfast, in broad daylight, he finds Tyler Seguin looking at him speculatively over his eggs and coffee -- specifically, at the collar of his shirt.

"Never seen a man with a hickey before?" Patrice asks, exasperated.

"Never seen an _anguisset_ with one," Tyler says. "Or at least, not with your clothes on." He leers comically.

Patrice can't help laughing. "I guess not," he says. He's been pretty circumspect this year.

"I, uh." Tyler scratches the back of his neck. "I'd like to see more, if you want."

"Oh," Patrice says. "...really?" He didn't think he was Tyler's type.

"Hell, yeah," Tyler says. "I have toys and stuff."

"Toys," Patrice repeats in disbelief.

"Of course." Tyler looks confused. "Do you not usually...?"

"Usually, they just use their fists," Patrice says. "Or their teeth."

"I can do that," Tyler says immediately. "I mean, my toy bag is back in Boston, anyway, so if you wanted, like, soon..."

Patrice grins. This is going to be fun. "I want," he says. "My _signale_ is Cleary."

"Cool."

Once they're done eating, they go up to Patrice's room, where the first thing Tyler does is take off his shirt.

"Do you want me to -- ?" Patrice asks, gesturing at his own chest.

"Oh!" Tyler looks down at the shirt in his hands, like he's not sure where it came from. "Sure! I mean, I just feel more comfortable, so, like..."

"Allergic to shirts, eh?" Patrice takes his off too, and watches Tyler's eyes on his chest, on the bruises from the game and from Burrows' less-than-tender ministrations.

"Wow," Tyler says. "How do they feel?"

"I love them," Patrice says honestly. "They feel like nothing else. Like, you know how a massage feels so good it almost hurts?" Tyler nods. "Like that, only I get to keep that feeling until the marks fade."

"Awesome," Tyler breathes. He takes a step closer to Patrice. "Can I touch them?"

"Sure," Patrice says. He likes touching them himself, so he's sure he'll like it if someone else does. He's never tried it; he usually lets the marks one person leaves on him fade before somebody else makes more.

Tyler touches the big bruise on Patrice's neck, the one he noticed at breakfast, with gentle fingers. Even that is enough to have his breath catching. "It looks good on you," Tyler says, low.

"What does?" Patrice asks, longing to push up hard into Tyler's hand.

"Pain," Tyler says, and digs his fingers in.

Patrice hisses and arches against his thigh. "Glad you -- think so," he gets out, and Tyler grins.

"This is going to be _fun_ ," Tyler says, echoing Patrice's earlier thought. He gives Patrice a hard shove, which -- since he wants to go -- is enough to have him toppling onto the bed, on his back. "I want to see where else you have marks."

"Be my guest," Patrice says, and lets Tyler yank down his sweats.

"Oh, _sweet_ ," Tyler says. He runs his hands over the insides of Patrice's thiths, where he's sore and swollen, and presses in with his knuckles, hard.

"Fuck, Tyler, _fuck_ ," Patrice says, trying to get some leverage.

"That's the idea," Tyler says. "You got any lube?"

"In my gear bag," Patrice says. "Side pocket."

Tyler lets go of him to get it, and the loss of pain feels so empty that Patrice could cry. He might whimper a little. "Don't worry, I'm coming back," Tyler says, so maybe more than a little.

He comes back with the travel-sized bottle and kneels between Patrice's spread thighs. "I know you want it rough, but I'm going to do it slow anyway." He slips a finger in -- so, not too slow -- and bites Patrice right on top of one of the marks Burrows left.

Patrice curses and arches up half off the bed. " _Tyler,_ " he says, and Tyler grins at him.

"Like my moves?" he asks, and bites him again, a little higher up.

" _Fuck,_ " Patrice says. "Come on, I can take another."

"When I say," Tyler says, and, fuck, Patrice isn't usually much for the denial side of things, but apparently he'll take it from Tyler. The finger inside him twists, and Patrice covers his mouth to stifle the loud moan that threatens to escape. "Don't do that. I want to hear you."

Obediently, Patrice moves his hand. Tyler stretches him open with a second finger, and this time, Patrice moans as loudly as Tyler seems to want.

"There you go," Tyler says happily, and sets his teeth deep into Patrice's bruised flesh.

Patrice cries out and writhes, as much as he can, held in place by Tyler's mouth and Tyler's fingers. The pain explodes in him like a star.

"Okay, okay, I said I'd go slow, but I can't wait," Tyler says. "Touch yourself, Bergy."

"If you insist," Patrice says, huffing out a laugh. He wraps one hand around his cock and pinches the nearest bruise with the other as Tyler rolls on a condom and slicks up.

"Just like that," Tyler says, lifting Patrice's legs over his shoulders. He pushes in, in, and sucks a new mark of his own right by Patrice's knee.

The stretch is perfect, burning just enough with pain and pleasure, and it's even better when Tyler really starts to thrust. Patrice digs his heels into Tyler's back and moans again, feeling split open, lit up. He strokes his own cock almost lazily; he could do this forever.

"I've thought about this," Tyler says, scraping his short nails over Patrice's sensitized skin. "Thought about getting you on your back, making you scream."

"Have you, really?" Patrice jerks himself a little harder.

"Of course," Tyler says, like it's obvious. "You're _Patrice Bergeron_. Even if I didn't know you were an _anguisset_ , I'd want you."

Patrice grins. "Well, you have me," he says, "so what are you going to do about it?"

Tyler returns the smile. "Whatever I want," he says, and slams his hips into Patrice's, dropping sharp little bites all over his neck, his collarbones, the underside of his jaw, wherever he can, as he fucks into him.

Patrice's orgasm builds as he soaks up all the pain and pleasure Tyler gives him. He finally tips over the edge when Tyler reaches between them to fist his cock roughly and says, "C'mon, do it" -- crying out something that might be Tyler's name, or a god's, or nothing at all.

"Yeah, fuck," Tyler says, and he comes too, squeezing Patrice's cock in his hand until Patrice's vision goes red and bronze wings clash in his ears.

Patrice doesn't know how much time passes, but when he comes back to himself, Tyler has pulled out, wiped most of the come off with a corner of the sheet, and spooned up against him, so it's evidently been a while. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," Tyler says, and presses a kiss to Patrice's shoulder.

"That was..." Patrice shakes his head. "That was incredible."

Tyler stretches. "Yeah, I'm pretty great," he says, then laughs. "So are you." Patrice swats him, which only makes him laugh harder. "What? I said you were pretty great!"

"Oh, yes, thank you," Patrice says, but he's laughing too.

"So -- again?" Tyler says hopefully.

"Definitely," Patrice says. He has a very good feeling about this.

***

It turns out to be justified: two weeks later, Patrice is the first _anguisset_ ever to win a Stanley Cup, to join the Triple Gold Club, and -- incidentally -- to make Tyler Seguin come so hard he forgets his own name. He's pretty sure Kushiel is smiling down on him.


End file.
